A gray day—which can of course be colored in so many ways.
I’ll add a vivid painting first (which I love is named Grey Weather), wanting to myself be the one to feel the paintbrush in a viscous glob of crimson lake or Tyrian purple. And then perhaps dye a dozen or two Thanksgiving eggs, since Easter has enough color of its own? Or paint Arabian poems on my hands in North African Violet ink, like ritual henna tattoos. Or find a bazaar with Moroccan spices, and plunge my hands up to the wrists, the elbows, in warm orange turmeric, golden saffron, the combined earthy colors of ras el hanout.
Coloring too the other senses, spicing them up—like the Ondaatje poem I am reminded of, The Cinnamon Peeler, here read by the author.